


but who am I to tell you who to love these days, water in your eyes like a flood these days

by thackeryisatop



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: It's Kind of A Funny Story AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26218852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thackeryisatop/pseuds/thackeryisatop
Summary: AU based on the book/movie It's Kind of a Funny Story. [M/M]Content Warning: This story, while it has no sexual or explicit content, contains somewhat detailed discussions/descriptions of depression, anxiety, and mental health struggles in general throughout. [For those familiar with the original material: The setting of the story and the plot (specifically to do with Noelle) have been changed; and there is no reference to the original settings, or the original incident with Noelle in this story.]
Relationships: Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo
Comments: 11
Kudos: 15





	but who am I to tell you who to love these days, water in your eyes like a flood these days

**Author's Note:**

> Me clearing out my docs to fill this acc with content? This is a pretty good story, for a fresh start, too. 
> 
> Far more likely than you think. Thanks to blackhighheels for reading an early draft of this story, too!
> 
> I wrote this pretty much after watching S11 (in like August last year?) and it's so obvious in the writing style and the references, and dialogue heavy and yeah- hope you all still enjoy it, though!

Tuesday: No Time Like Right Now

Brock knows he’s not right. 

He hasn’t felt well in what feels like months, though he supposes it’s normal, isn’t it- to be young and lost and tired? He has an apartment in New York and a dream job in a ballet company where they don’t mind that he likes dressing up as a girl; only because the rest of them do, too. 

Isn’t that what everyone wants? 

-Money! 

Acceptance-!

What if he runs out of money?

He doesn’t have health insurance, and that’s worrying, it worries him enough, riding on the subway to his next rehearsal, that he vomits into one of the bins that’s set up to be used for recycling. 

He misses his stop, but it doesn’t matter- he can keep riding the train, white-knuckled and still, and get on another one; a bullet with a trajectory he can’t figure out in his mind, getting off somewhere where he can barely recognize the letters. There’s a pier here, and he can smell the river and the ocean blend together with street food and cigarette smoke, his stride long and lazy as he zigzags towards the bridge, the wind growing just slightly stronger, rustling through his hair with a chill that makes him feel so completely alive, even if his throat is getting tighter, and it’s harder and harder to breathe.

So, he hails a cab instead. 

The yellow taxi takes him across the Brooklyn Bridge, the driver chattering along with the incessant buzzing in his head. He hardly notices the traffic, hardly realizes when he’s dropped off in front of the address he had given. There’s a rainbow flag hanging in the window; and he hates how bright the sunlight is, how it’s so hot that he can feel the flag’s scratchy fabric. 

God, he just wants to- 

No!

Not really, though; and that is why he crosses the threshold and pulls open the cracking white door, stumbling through the hallway until he finds an open door, and sinks into a heavy, upholstered chair in front of a desk where there’s a girl with brightly colored green hair typing away at the computer. 

“I think I need help.” 

-

There’s a lot of paperwork to fill out. 

A lot of repeated warnings and questions he doesn’t want to answer, no matter how softly the girl across the table looks at him, her lips pursed together in a straight pink line that is gilded with glitter just underneath where her tongue pokes out while she types on her computer. 

Her name is Courtney, her name tag double stamped so it looks like the letters swim together and say Courtney-Courtney, and Brock’s mind sing-songs her name together because he still can’t quite focus. 

But Courtney doesn’t look scared, and that’s good, right? 

It’s all gonna be good, he buzzes in his head, the gravity of what he is doing, looping in his name in a signature at the bottom of the sheets of paper. 

He needs his pills. 

That’s why he had been so worried! About not having health insurance, because his prescriptions were all up and he needed them even though he tried not taking them for as long as he possibly could- and- 

If he stays here, and listens to Courtney-Courtney; he'll get them. 

And if he keeps his head down, and says all the right things, he'll get out, and the nice free clinic upstairs will cover his co-pay. 

The perks of being in a vulnerable population, he supposes, and that makes Brock smile, at least a little bit. Everything is funny, isn't it? At the end of the day, there's a whole lot of jokes he think he'd be good at telling, if he could just get them out of his head- 

"Have you ever done anything like this before?", Courtney asks him; but Brock doesn't answer. 

It's not that he hasn't tried it; twice before, actually. Tried to really solve his problems and make this incessant chirping in the back of his head go away. But this is the first time that he's actually found the door open. 

So he's honest, tilting his head slightly in her direction, when he says, "No." 

-

The Program, Courtney explains, "-isn't checking yourself into the hospital. We’re gonna have to call someone else if that’s what you want." 

"You're allowed to say that?", Brock finds himself unable to keep from grinning, and wonders if that's especially macabre, since he's here anyway because he can't imagine what it might be like to be happy. 

"Maybe it's not in the official description. But it's the truth.", she laughs, kicking her legs underneath her desk so she can cross her ankles, toes pointed in purple flats with golden studs. Brock would tell her they were beautiful, if it wouldn't be inappropriate to comment on a woman's feet in the first twenty minutes of being in her presence. 

"All of you are here because you want to be- and almost 90% of our beds are just shelter space- we’re lucky to have the funding to just be a safe place where people can come to cool off when they need to. We aren't as strict as what you might be thinking of. We can give you a week, and after that, we'll look at your options. Don't tell my boss, but I think we have a few of my favorites-", she pauses for effect- "-who come in every week or so just for the free pizza and condoms. Movie Night is on Thursday." 

Brock nods along, his foot tapping on the tightly-wound, coarse brown carpet under his feet. 

"Okay." 

"You don't have to come if you don't want to. Everyone has their own rooms, so if you're worried about it being like what you see in movies, there won't be an ex-con with a knife hovering over your bed. That's probably just Steve, he works security overnight." 

Courtney's smile stretches wide across her cheeks. "We don't do random room checks as a rule, because trust is important. But you know...-", she shakes her head, Brock's papers in her hands as she moves to hole-punch the folder. "-just in case people are fucking in there." 

"People do that?", Brock very nearly squeaks in utter shock. 

"Of course.", she sighs, twirling a strand of that sea-colored hair in between her fingers.

"Brock...- I don't know if anyone's ever put it to you this way before; but, You're a person, and people have problems. It doesn't mean you hang up your human card at the door just because you're actually trying to solve them."

Thursday: Night

The next few days pass in a haze of fog; hours blurred together, and it isn't until his second night, when Brock does wake up to hear Steve, checking the locks on his bedroom door; that the sheer gravity of what he's done sinks in, the meds in his system settling him enough to realize where exactly he is, underneath the mismatched bedsheets that Courtney had helped him choose from the workroom downstairs; from shelves piled with donations that they were all welcome to have their pick of. His room was in the upper corner of the building, a long, windowless hallway with a thin slate of drywall separating it from its empty neighbor, with a double bed and an adjacent bathroom. 

It was nice, he supposed, nice, if he hadn't just realized that he had checked himself in. 

What was happening to his apartment now? 

To the ballet? 

Had they called the cops? 

Had the cops found his passport; and called his parents? 

"F-", his teeth chatter in between a choked breath. "Fuck!" 

He needs- God. 

Little late for that, he reminds himself, throwing off the sheets of his bed, and waiting behind the door until Steve started to creak down the stairs of the fire escape, probably letting himself out for a midnight smoke. 

Courtney had taken Brock's smokes with his phone when she had unlocked his room; and he'd only realized later, that his paranoia only ratcheted up that much more without a cigarette to take the edge off. 

He slides down the hallway, past the flickering lights marking the directions to the bathrooms, past doors where he hears keyboards clacking and the telltale sounds of someone perhaps indulging themselves in pleasures that he's terrified of at the moment, careful to be as quiet as possible as he rounds the corner. There's a phone beside one of the windows, which is supposed to be in case of emergency; or for people to call their families, Courtney had explained. 

Brock's just reaching to start to dial, fingers shaking just a bit- when a shadow crosses the corner of his eye, and screams for his attention. 

"Um- Hey Steve?", he calls out into the hallway. "I'm just- gonna use the phone, is that okay?" 

"Who the fuck that is?", he hears a scratchy, pitched voice screech out from his left, and nearly screams himself. 

"What?", he asks, searching for whoever is speaking. 

Brock's eyes settle on a backwards red snapback, his gaze following the movement downwards to a boy wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans ripped up so much that he swears he can see the color of his underwear when he turns slightly to the left. His dark hair falls over his eyes; a hand furiously reaching up to swipe it, left or right, across his forehead. 

"Who the fuck you are?", he asks, and Brock suddenly feels his stomach clench. He hasn't really met anyone else, except for Ru and Michelle, his counselors, and Courtney and Steve. 

Even on the outside, he'd always preferred his own company, but- 

"I asked you, who the fuck are you?", he asked again. 

"B-brock.", he sputtered, not quite sure what to do. Were there alarms? Should he have asked- 

"Oh. You gotta use the phone, or what?" 

"I was- hoping to, yeah." 

"Well then you just gotta grab it. Gotta go like this-", he said, his hand cutting past Brock's chest. "-and take what's yours. Ain't they tell you that yet?" 

He started to dial; his fingers, poking out of the sleeves of his shirt, far too long for his much smaller frame, tipped with chipped polish that Brock thinks he would love to wear, too. On the other end, the phone begins to ring, and he cups a hand around the bottom of the receiver. 

"What are you, new or some shit?"

"Uh-", Brock sighs, as he leans against the windowsill, legs spread far apart, twirling the cord around his fingers, down his wrist, where the sharp points of a floral tattoo melt into dots on the back of his hand. 

"It's my first- guess it's been a couple of days? It's my first time."

"Ha. Well-", he listens for the response on the other end of the phone, and rolls his eyes. "It's Jose. If you're naughty you can call me- well that's not important, but you know what? Wanna be a bro?"

Brock's eyebrows arc up. "What-?" 

"Look around the corner. When Michelle starts coming up the stairs tell her I'm back in my old room already. Ain't lookin' forward to seeing her ass up here again." 

"Michelle's nice.", Brock points out.

"Yeah, to you.", Jose chuckles. 

"Fine. Which one's your room?"

Jose points to the one right beside Brock's, winking. His long lashes shadow over his cheek, and Brock thinks he's beautiful, because he's gay and thirsty and bored and anxious all at once.

Whoever he's waiting for finally picks up the phone, and Jose jumps up on the windowsill, grinning. 

"Child, would you believe- I'm back, baby.", he snickers into the phone, and just as he'd predicted, Brock can hear the telltale clicking of Michelle's tall, heeled boots coming up the stairs. 

"This time I'm coming outta here with a piece. Get these cookies, baby!", Jose says, conspiratorial and giggly, and Brock wonders if he's in the right place, or he'd come off the street knowing the phone was free, but his voice sounds so out of place here- happy and trilling, he can't help but feel something making is chest feel warm. 

"Oh, shit- shit, I gotta get outta here- bye, bitch!" 

He clambers behind a tall, fabric screen that's been in the hallway for the past few days; something that was part of an art project, or overflow from the storage downstairs, only the top of his head, the red fabric of his cap, visible behind the top of the golden, sequinned screen. Just like clockwork, Michelle rounds the corner, her sharp eyes locking with Brock as he awkwardly moves to put the phone back on its dock. 

"Brock?" 

"Mmhmm? Yeah? Hi. I was just- calling... I was trying to get my Mom.", he sputters out, and swears he can head Jose huff out a deep breath behind him. 

"Anyone else come up here yet?" 

"Nah- not that I know of, anyway. It's kind of late. Maybe Courtney's been up here?" 

Michelle nods, and glances at the closed door of the room which Jose had said was supposed to be his; like she's weighing the truth of what he's said. 

"I'll check with her, then. Thank you, Brock." 

"Yup. You're welcome."

Ten or so minutes pass, and Jose starts to snicker when the two of them can clearly hear Michelle's footsteps on the creaky hardwood of the floor below. 

“Thanks, bitch!”, he says, his voice a stage whisper that’s scratchy and warm, breath hot with the sickly-sweet smell of flavoured smoke. “You a real one!” 

His eyes are two pinprick sparkles, that glitter in the dim moonlight before he shakes his head again, and brushes by Brock on his way to his room. Their hips bump together, and Brock is so tired, his eyes rolling upwards; the words for how he feels right now not quite coming together in his mind. 

“Hey-”

“What? You think I really wanna walk out of here with a piece? You wanna make it happen?”, he teases, and Brock feels something clench in his chest. 

“Give me your Juul.” 

“What?” 

“I need a smoke.” 

Wordlessly, Jose hands it over, and fixes Brock with the most imperceptible look, his face shadowed blue against the white-gray hallway’s walls. 

Later, when Brock shuffles to the balcony and breathes in deep, watermelon juice fills his lungs with the same scent as Jose, nicotine flooding through him, sparking in his brain as he leans against the railing, watching the city rage on below him, like the ocean at midnight must do, too. 

He exhales, and smoke curls around him. Under the streetlights, it feels almost like a warm embrace. 

Friday: Morning

“- My concern with him is that, he’s been given chance after chance after chance- and I don’t want this to sound like we don’t love these kids, but there’s just a point where I think he is, that it isn’t clicking.” 

Brock can hear Michelle before he sees her, her legs tucked underneath the barstool where she sits, heading up a table by the very front of the cafeteria, flanked by Ru, dressed in his sharpest green and yellow day suit while he flicks through case reports, and Ross and Carson, who hastily scribble notes into leather portfolios, glancing at one another and clicking their tongues as they write. 

Courtney explained to him, in between asking him if he’s doing okay with his new meds, scribbling down how he feels a little nauseous today in her legal pad, that they’re what she likes to call generously underfunded. She giggles and tells him she shouldn’t be trying to be his friend, but Brock’s growing more grateful for Courtney-Courtney, and how she pulls him into all of her bright schemes, enlisting him to choose the candy for the Wednesday Youth Night piñata, or asking him to judge her eyeshadow choices in great detail, probably because she knows it’s all he can do to get out of bed in the morning. 

It’s pitiful. 

It’s good to know someone cares, though. 

Today, he’s been sent to the kitchen, on a mission to get yogurt cups out of the fridge for the breakfast picnic that Courtney’s planning to have in their little slab of a back lot, where a single picnic table is bolted down to the fence posts, fairy lights and ripped paper lanterns climbing up and down the chain-link fence. Brock has only been outside twice in his whole time here, and watched the paper flicker and blow in the early morning light, smoking the last of Jose’s cartridge, thinking he would fix it the next morning, sit out there and make it all pretty before anyone else woke up. 

Because the world is cruel, and he’s a shit person, he wakes up at almost ten, but Courtney tells him it doesn’t matter. 

“Residentials are mostly a brunch crew!”, she says cheerily, and Brock has to bite his tongue to keep from saying it’s because everyone’s probably sleeping off whatever cocktail of feelings got them through that door in the first place. 

He ducks into the kitchen, throwing back the lock on the refrigerator door to retrieve the case of yogurt, his ears drifting right back to the voices floating in the adjacent room. 

“- wouldn’t it be amazing if Jose was one of our success stories, though? If we could get him to the finish line? Because what the city needs to see is that we’re not a revolving door. They want to see a world where that’s possible.”, says Ross. 

Brock’s ears perk up a little bit at that. 

Jose, the boy from last night, piques his curiosity instantly. His room door was still closed when Brock passed by earlier; but he makes a quick plan to make sure Jose gets his vape back later. Where they are notwithstanding, he doesn’t want to become that guy. Besides, Courtney tells him people sometimes stay friends after this, and maybe Jose can be his friend, someone who he doesn’t have to lie to every second sentence, because he would know Brock’s deepest, darkest secret- and he wouldn’t mind it, would he? 

The table is still talking when he slips past, yogurt cases in his arms. He’s not supposed to know about everyone else, and even though he wasn’t trying to listen, his breathing grows faster in the hallway, out of their sight. 

What if they talk about him, too? 

What do they say? 

He shakes his head free of Michelle and Ross, thinking only of Jose, wondering why it’s been so easy to be stuck on him. Brock’s mind has been in overdrive since last night, and he balances yogurt cases, trying to think of anything beyond him. He’s clearly not the only guy in the building, and it’s not like Brock is that thirsty. 

It’s only been a few days. 

Steve’s hot, objectively. 

He also has a husband, and that’s what keeps Brock thinking of Jose’s wicked little smile, the dip of his red cap, the taste of him on that vape stick, all sticky and sweet. Did he wear lip gloss? Brock preferred lip balm for himself-

He makes his way to the back door, using his shoulder to push it open, into the noisy New York soundscape that waits in their back lot, where Courtney is holding court over the picnic table, a few of the other guys gathered around her while she slices open a watermelon. 

“I saw this video on YouTube once where people just put rubber bands around it and it like, blows up. They pop that pussy like trade pops mine.” 

It’s unmistakably Jose, his voice a slice across the cool, midday air, dressed in a little yellow hoodie with his hands shoved deep in the pockets, babbling along while he’s pretty sure Courtney has her very best customer service smile on her face. 

“As if you get trade, you little Pokemon lookin’ big mouth loser.”

Brock grins, as he rests the cardboard cases on the table.

“Hey, Reggie-”, he starts, waving at the larger man at the end of the table, his hair already wrapped up in a pink turban.

He and Reggie get along, somewhat. The guy is loud as hell, but he’s in and out and comes to pick up free breakfast to take the leftovers to the church where he works, and Brock can appreciate it, being loud and gay and not ever saying sorry. 

He wants to learn to do that, too.

“- If y’all give me my phone back I can show you- hold up- who’s Reggie?”, Jose nearly screams, as if Brock’s committed some kind of personal affront by saying hi to his friend. “This is Silky. Silky Nutmeg Ganache, cause she makes all of it- organic!”, he starts to laugh, and Brock watches Reggie nod along. 

“Bitch, you know I only give the white people my government name. I thought my hoe life was our secret!”

“Yeah, ‘cause you bein’ a hoe don’t exist.”

“Next time you get tore up by some boy who forgets you two are exclusive, don’t come to the church, then with that type of attitude.”, Silky shoots back, rolling his eyes as he snatches a yogurt cup from Brock. 

“I came there for Jesus! Just had to get your dumb ass instead.” 

Jose’s skipped around the table, hanging on to Silky’s arm as he leans into the bench, the smile across his face so wide that Brock can’t help but feel one tug at his cheeks, too, watching the two of them cut up with each other with so much obvious pleasure, that it almost makes him forget that he isn’t really at a picnic with his friend Courtney, and the three other strangers she’s brought along. 

“Jesus said the body is sanctified!”, Silky shouts, raising his hands in the air as Jose just shakes his head, drawing his arms around himself tighter in his seat, the conversation quickly losing steam as he turns to Brock. 

“Hi Brock!”, he says, so brightly that it almost sounds like he’s singing. Jose winks right at him, so Courtney can’t see, reaching for a cup of vanilla yogurt. 

“Did you sleep okay?” 

He nods, not really sure of what to say, taking a seat on Jose’s other side, so he’s in the middle of he and Courtney. 

“Good! That’s really good! ‘Cause today me and Courtney are going dumpster diving! Well, we’re gonna clean out the basement for community service points and they got such good shit down there. Real vintage. Shit Ru probably wore when he was gay.”

“Ru’s still gay, Jose.”, Courtney snorts with laughter, spooning her own yogurt into her mouth. 

“Yeah, but he’s civilized as hell now. You ever seen those pictures when he used to be a drag queen? Bet I’d be a great drag queen.”

“Yeah, after lights out.”, Silky jokes, and Jose looks so legitimately offended that Brock can feel his heart race, for just a moment, not wanting to be in the middle of a fight. 

“You’re such a rotted bitch.” 

“Is that what you want to do, Jose? Should we put it in your post plan?”

Courtney winks at Brock, out of the corner of her bright, clear blue eyes. 

“Nah. I’d be shit at it ‘cause I’m not girly and shit. Too butch for that.”, he says with full conviction, his cheek resting on his fist, leaning on his elbows against the table.

Brock’s close enough to tell that his cheekbones have had glitter artfully applied, his lashes tipped with black pencil that brushes across his cheeks when he blinks. 

“But Drag Race is fun. If this place got cable we could watch it, maybe it’d suck less and we’d all be happier.” 

“Why don’t you mention that to Ru when you see him later?” 

“‘Cause he won’t listen, and he’ll just say shit like it’s my inner saboteur telling me that I need cable.” 

The whole table bursts out in laughter, and Brock can’t help but join them.

There’s something about Jose that’s magnetic, charming and bright in ways that make Brock want to stand on the balcony upstairs, and feel the reckless rush of the wind against his arms, the smell of the flowers in his perfume so overwhelming for a moment that Brock catches himself staring for just a moment too long, a smile tugging at his cheeks as he watches Jose, squeezing Courtney’s hand, screaming when Silky lands a particularly savage barb, trading easy conversation with the guy at the end of the table- Greg or something?- like one of the people who Brock’s always wished he was. 

“Anyways, Brock- you ready to be hotter than Gay Ru?”, Jose asks, turning back to him so that his eyes lock to Brock’s, warm and golden brown, blinking in the midday sunlight. Brock’s never had someone’s attention on him so completely, the feeling foreign and intoxicating, his eyes watering as Jose’s gaze seems to bore into him. 

“Y-yeah… I-” 

He’s suddenly cut off by a loud whoop at the end of the table, a phone clattering to the wood table 

“I’m getting custody.”, Greg breathes out, absolutely oblivious to the fact that all of them know he’s sneaked his phone out of Michelle’s office, and is scrolling through his emails, like he’s anyone else in New York. “My nephew’s case worker said- the judge just needs me to make an appearance on Friday morning and- he’s optimistic. Holy shit-” 

Jose’s fist bangs on the table, whooping loudly in between the screaming honks of the cars on the street, the sound of brakes screeching and grinding on the blacktop. 

“Fuck yeah no foster care!”, he shouts at the bright, blue sky, Silky shouting right along with him, banging their plastic spoons on the side of the table. 

“Fuck yeah no foster care!”

Everyone seems so fucking happy, all of a sudden, a visceral pleasure Brock can feel touching him a little too roughly. Like it’s something that isn’t allowed, because he doesn’t deserve it, and he shouldn’t be a part of whatever this is- because he’s going to destroy it like he always does- 

But. 

Brock catches Jose’s wide, toothy smile beside him, his body so close they’re almost pressed together, and feels that same brightness bloom inside of him that for once, he doesn't try to fight. 

For just a moment, he starts to think, everything might just turn out okay. 

Sunday: Afternoon

“-I think the issue is that, we don’t really see the real you, do we now? Because I think that Brock must be someone fascinating. But maybe, the reason you always feel like you’re on the outside, is because he doesn’t come out enough.”

Brock is sitting across from RuPaul; who’s supposed to be his counselor, though he’s heard Courtney tell one of her friends on the phone, when she thinks that he’s not listening and her office door is half-open, that Ru’s a shitty armchair psychologist with a degree off the internet, and she can’t wait until she can get paid what she’s worth and not have to work in his world. 

Except, Brock knows his follow-up visits are going to be non-negotiable, a phrase he can hear so clearly in Michelle's voice, that it sort of freaks him out a little bit. So, when he's with Ru, he tries to be quiet, tries to pay attention; imagines him like the old ballet masters whose bodies Brock watched with an eye for the details, enough that he never did have to listen to what came out of their mouths. 

Brock’s selfish, and hopes that doesn’t mean that he won’t see Courtney again when he leaves, a date that he’s figured out is only three days away. As it happens, time passes slowly without the normal pressures of actual living, and the week Courtney promised has felt like forever. 

It’s probably because he’s been sleeping, which he thinks he’s going to miss, when he’s back in the real world. He’s supposed to be meeting with Ru to discuss his follow-up plan before they meet in the cafeteria for a Group session, which Brock hates for the most part, but commits to only because he’s going to need every check in his file, so he’s got a shot at being normal again.

Or better, maybe. 

If he wanted. 

He’s going to miss when Jose isn’t at his door, sitting on the floor in the hallway, tapping his foot against the bottom of the door, pretending that he’s reading, or waiting for the phone when Steve eventually comes up to tell him to either go back to his room, or find an “alternative engaging activity.”

Brock doesn’t know why Jose’s been so obsessed with him, practically tripping over his little pony legs to join Brock for breakfast every morning, running downstairs while he follows behind to tell everyone who’ll listen what a great day it’s going to be, wearing a striped shirt half open down his chest, and that same pair of jeans that he’d worn when Brock had met him. 

His mouth is always going, but in rare moments of focus, Brock realizes he asks questions. 

He’s always asking how Brock is, what he’s doing, what his life is like outside. When he finally gets up the energy to clean up the fence in the back, Jose can’t hold himself back from helping, inching ever closer to Brock, over and over, until Brock notices, and moves away. 

There’s a part of him that still fears punishment, that flares inside of him when Ru tries to poke at the rock-solid walls he’s built over the years. It’s not against the rules, to like Jose. It wouldn’t be against the rules to rail him hard against the side of the house and ruin his lip gloss, cradle his head against Brock’s chest and smoke with him on the balcony. 

But he’s trying to get better, and he can’t drag Jose, who blows through the whole place like a huge ball of screaming light, down with him. 

Especially not after what had happened today. 

-

"Seems like you know everyone in here, huh?", Brock had asked, as Jose’s tattooed fingers looped through the chain-link fence, ripping at red and yellow ribbons. He had sat on his knees, rocking closer to Brock so that the warmth radiates from his smaller body as they work. 

"Yeah, I been through a few times. And you know what they say; good pussy don't ever get tired baby!", he laughed, making Brock grin against the warm sunlight. "Guess I'll just keep comin' back if they keep havin' me. It keeps me out of jail, ‘sides I like everybody. ‘Cept maybe Michelle. And some of the other guys…. Child, it gets crazy if you ever go to Group-” 

"Are you really here instead of being in jail?"

"What are you, ICE?", Jose joked easily, but his voice quieted with a sudden gasp. "Whatever. It’s just… whatever. Why you in for, anyway? Maybe you’re the serial killer!” 

“I was just really depressed, I guess. I’m kinda used to being a sad- you know, but I couldn’t handle it myself and I- did something about it.”, Brock told him, the words he’s been practicing for the future, for the countless times he’s going to have to explain himself, getting easier every time. 

“Oh.” 

Brock can see Jose’s cheeks burn a bit brighter, the warmth hitting his skin before Jose turns away, biting down on his lips, watching the scraps of paper flutter away in the wind. 

“Do you have a problem with that?” 

“Nah- nah- obviously we all- in this together, right? We’re all just here getting frustrated and stuff. Besides, you’re awesome. You fierce as fuck. Even Silky thinks so.” 

“Am I?” 

“Uh-huh.”, Jose had nodded, like it was the undisputed truth. He had gathered enough of the streamers into his fist, pink and white and yellow, that they looked like a floating flower in his hand when he waved in Brock’s face. 

“You got your shit together, don’t ever get in your head and think you don’t.”, he said, smiling a little. “That’s not something a lot of people can say.”

“I- don’t- but I’m gonna let you have that.”, Brock chuckled, staying in his place as Jose orbited closer again, and their shoulders touched. He’s learning to accept compliments, even if they come from a boy who is bright as the fluorescent bars in the offices inside, who seems like he can only see anything good. 

“Why the fuck are you so happy anyway?”, he asked, and lets the question float between them, the air as hot and empty as Brock had felt, watching the ships float underneath the pier in Brooklyn before he would have ever imagined being here now, Jose’s breath making the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. 

“I- just ain’t never gonna be the bitch who makes someone else’s bad day worse. So I just smile and stuff, maybe it makes other people feel better, you know? But we don’t know each other like that, don’t get it twisted.”

His eyes were huge, brown and warm and looked over his cheekbones that glittered in the sunlight, his face already so close to Brock’s that when he leaned in to close the space between them, Brock hardly had to turn his face for their lips to meet. 

Jose tasted like peaches and sugar and black coffee, his tongue filling Brock’s mouth with urgency while his hands scrabbled to grasp at Brock’s shirt, the feeling between them an unmasked desperation as Brock hooks his hand arm underneath Jose’s, and pulled him closer to his chest. 

He kissed back with ferocity, until Jose tapped against his stomach, and signaled for the two of them to break apart. 

“How do- How did you know I liked you?”, he asked, as breathless and confused and free as he has ever felt. 

“Cause you made me smile the first time I met you. For real, smile.”, Jose said, with a tiny shrug, his breath still warm against Brock’s cheek. “Why would you do that if you didn’t like me, too?” 

-

“We’ve noticed, you and Jose are getting very close.”, Ru tells him, and Brock forces himself back into the moment. “Some of the friends that you make in here, they’re like-”

RuPaul himself, leans across the desk and grins, his face splitting wide; eyes bright with the memories that Brock only knows, must be from his own time lighting up the stage; stumbling through New York City, with only his very best friends by his side, feeling invincible. 

“-are like a sisterhood, for life. Do you think that, well, other than Jose, you’ve maybe met some people who you would like to keep in your support system?” 

Brock swallows, his throat dry. “Courtney. I think, and uh, Silky. Yeah. Or- Reggie, his real name, right?” 

Ru chuckles to himself. “Silky can certainly be a lot to handle, I wouldn’t have expected that. But you’re right, he’s hilarious. Sometimes, when he gets with Jose, oh-” 

He stops himself before he says anymore, and lays the pad of paper, down on his desk. 

“Do you think they know the real Brock? Courtney, and Silky and Jose?” 

Brock shifts a little bit, uncomfortable in his seat. For the first time, it almost seems, like his eyes are clearer than they’ve ever been, the features of his face, nearly foreign in his reflection in RuPaul’s bright pink coffee mug. 

“I don’t know-”, he breathes out, the terror of those words- the uncertainty that squeezes them from his mouth threatening to choke him. The truth, he’s realized, flickering in the background of Jose’s chaos, grounding himself beside Silky’s outrageous, and oddly comforting prayers; sending up a silent wish of his own, that Greg will be okay on the other side- is that he doesn’t know, really- who Brock is. 

He’s always found comfort in a practiced perfection, the rightness of coloring inside the lines. But; the whole picture, whatever it is his little part is supposed to be, has always been something Brock’s forced from his mind, preferring the laser-focus of his next objective; the next goal, the next thing, to spur him along, and keep him running from whatever it is- the dark room that only his thoughts occupy. 

He doesn’t want to be alone with them. 

But maybe, he doesn’t have to be alone.

“I don’t know-”, he repeats, letting Ru’s dark, sharp eyes bore into his own. “ But I think they’d like to get to know him, too.”

Sunday: Night 

The kiss still weighs on Brock; as he circles himself around Courtney’s office, nails biting into the palm of his hand. It wasn’t against the rules, he reminded himself, scoffing as his brain betrayed him to the same old comforts. The rules; the lines; the tiny part of the picture that said nothing about what it was supposed to look like in the end at all. His body clenched despite himself, his muscles humming with unspent energy. 

He hated to admit it, but he even missed his old French ballet master; screaming directions from the corner of the studio; letting him get lost in the scrum of boys who looked just as he did, no more a person than a name and a number and the same blonde mop of hair that stared back at him in the mirror in arabesque. 

He missed blending in; the attention that was unavoidable here- almost stifling, as Courtney glances up at him from behind her desk, pen pressed to the cupid’s bow of her pink-lipped mouth. 

“Are you just gonna pace, or do you want to come down to the kitchen and see what’s happened with those farm-to-table boxes?”, she asks, kicking her chair back from her desk. 

“I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”, he blurts out, all of a sudden, the admission surprising them both. He’s never thought of it, either- the idea of a man being more than a bright, empty, evening where the two of them explode like fireworks and never speak of it again; a terrifying thought on its own, that he’s never entertained. The future, Brock realizes, beyond waking up and going to sleep, filling his days running from himself; has never been something he’s given the time of day to think of.

But; he supposes- Brock could have that, a boy who says that he’s always made him smile, who kisses him softly and giggles and laces their fingers together, until they notice the time and scramble away-

“Is it Jose? Are you two boyfriends now?”, she asks, the clinical coolness she speaks with sometimes, gone completely, though Brock isn’t stupid enough to think that they’re friends or something now- just because she looks like she’d rather hear him talk about a guy he likes, than his still empty post-plan that’s due in two days. 

“Do you think he’d- well, let’s say it’s not Jose-”, Brock snaps. “-like, after. If I wanted a boyfriend, how’d I- do that?” 

“I hate to say it, but I’m the worst person to ask. I’ve never had one, either, but I’m pretty sure, that’s for different reasons.”, Courtney starts to laugh. She pulls a folder from her drawer, and taps it against Brock’s arm as she guides the two of them to her door. 

“I’ve heard the easiest way, though- is just if you ask.”

-

They’re halfway up the hallway; when Brock flinches as something screams from the dining hall; slamming into the wall he and Courtney walk beside. 

“ _ What the f- _ ” 

“I was trying to be closer with you!”, a voice that’s unmistakably Jose’s, rings through the hall, the scuffle of chairs against the floor squeaking like a chorus of little arms, the chaos that greets them as they round the hall; altogether almost too much for Brock. They’re all around the couches; a movie playing silently in the background, snacks spilled from the table; all over the thickly coiled, scratchy carpet.

Jose’s standing with his fists balled up, in some other guy’s face who Brock’s barely ever met before- vaguely familiar enough that Brock doesn’t question his presence, but foreign enough that the hairs on the back of his neck raise, almost as if he’s watching his little brother take on a playground bully. 

Jose can take care of himself; Brock thinks, anyway, his arms reaching up to shove at the other man. It’s shame that fills him, watching Jose like this, his throat growing dry with a raw kind of attraction. He’s hot- hot as fucking hell when he’s angry, and Brock’s not quite sure what to do with that. 

“I don’t care about closer, I want real-”, he shouts back, Jose barely flinching as he glowers in his face. 

“Fuck-” 

“Okay- you need to cool off-”, Michelle tells him, her much smaller hand locking around Jose’s shoulder, as he squirms against her touch; forcing the two of them apart. “You need to take a walk, and you need to breathe-” 

“Fuck if I need to breathe-”, Jose shouts; his voice sharper than Brock has ever heard; his anger boiling over to a molten, directionless kind of aggression as he lashes out, kicking at the siding of the wall, making the room vibrate as it starts to split from the tile. 

“Jose- this isn’t a warning. You need to leave, take a moment, and then meet me in my office-” 

“Fuck your office-” 

He smashes his fist against a calendar hanging on the wall; snapping back when the paper flies to the floor. 

“Jose. You need to go.” 

The air in the room, seems to crackle; and Brock can see Silky, out of the corner of his eye, reach for their friend, his hand touching the trim of Jose’s jacket before his arm reels back, and he turns on his heel; shuffling towards the hallway on the tail end of a cyclone that leaves Brock breathless; silent, catching his breath as he surveys the damage. 

It takes a couple of moments; staring at the empty space on the wall; a square where the paint is so much brighter than the faded yellow around it; before he feels his legs start to move; following Jose wherever he’ll lead. 

-

He finds Jose; like he always does in the morning. 

His legs spread in front of him, elbows resting on his knees, his head in hands as he trembles with the same excess energy Brock is beginning to get used to having; outside the hallway that their rooms share, Steve trying to hide his much wider body behind the corner, clearly assigned to make sure Jose doesn’t rip the phone from its’ stand, or something equally outrageous. 

It’s the silence that throws him off, the utter quiet of nothing but his shallow breaths, where he’d usually be filling their time with some kind of story that stretches the truth just enough to make Brock want nothing more than to see if it could be true, craving the release of that big, scary world outside- more than anything in the world when Jose’s mouth starts to run. 

“Hey, Jo-”, he starts, feeling that hot, familiar fear; that he’s doing something wrong clawing its way back up his center. He should leave it to Steve, and Courtney, and Ru and Michelle. Jose was right- they hardly knew each other; and yet, here he was, letting something inexplicable, pull him into deeper, colder water, 

“Can I sit here?” 

There’s a noncommittal grunt, a sound that’s almost strangled, just like Brock feels. 

Their bodies aren’t quite as close, as they were outside, in the sunshine. Now, in the shadows, Brock is acutely aware, of just how far away they are, Jose more of a feeling, a hard, hot, quickly melting rage; than he is a presence. 

“You know what I did the first time I ended up in here?”, he says; to nothing but the empty air between them. If their eyes are meeting, Brock certainly can’t see. 

“I walked up on my ex, doing me fucking wrong at the buffet; and flipped the whole, goddamn table. With the ginger beef in it and all that shit. I just said, fuck it, and fucked it all up. So my mom, she was tellin’ me after, I had to get my anger management shit in order to get a letter for the judge and all that.” 

“So you weren’t lying about jail?”, Brock couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Nah, guess not. I don’t think anyone was gonna be trying to press charges or whatever though, it just wasn’t that kind of place. But then I- the next time, you know, I’d just flip out at work, stop showing up and shit so I could just go to a party and feel like I was worth shit, and then- I dunno. I get fucking heated, and I just forget to take a walk like Michelle’s always saying. Take a walk and shut up and think about it and shit.”, Jose sighs, reaching his hand forward, where his tattoos catch the bare moonlight, just enough to look like a spiderweb, on the back of hand. 

“You ever actually hurt anyone? Are you the secret serial killer?” 

“Nah.” Brock can see the silver-white streak of his teeth when he looks over, Jose’s grin breaking through for just a moment. “Smashed some windows in good, though. If a Toyota ever sees me, the car starts running no matter who’s driving it.” 

He sounds like he’s reminiscing then, his voice low, and soft. 

“I’m real sorry, by the way. People always expect shit out of me, and I just can’t be that, so you know, maybe you seein’ stuff that’s not real, was why we’re kissing and all this.” 

Brock’s eyes widen. “You really think I can think anyone’s a fuck-up?” 

“Why not, you got a sickening job outside, right? You a dancer, all the way from Canada, you kiki-ing with Courtney and Ru and they all think you’re gonna do great. Michelle needs to get these walls fixed ‘cause I can hear everything they say. Give me a month, and I’ll flip out again and they get to say hi.”, Jose snapped. “There should be some kind of hall of fame for how many times you come back.” 

“ _ How do you know- _ Michelle talks about me all the time too?”, Brock asks him, serious, but mirthful enough. 

“It’s all good shit. But you know, I listen, too. When you're talking and shit, even when you’re kind of quiet. Fuck, Brock-”, he huffs out. “You’re just so _ cool. _ ” 

Brock’s never been called cool; probably in his entire life; the whole- everything that it implies, crashes into his side like a cold, foamy wave. Or maybe, that’s just Jose, having pulled their bodies closer together; so his head now rests on Brock’s shoulder, the feeling of his coarse, thick, hair like a heavy cloud against Brock’s cheek. 

“Really?” 

He can feel his own heart racing, the dryness of his lips and the coolness of the breeze, that starts to blow in from the open balcony. 

“Yes, bitch- for-fucking-really. What, you get bullied in school and this is you like, Bring It On moment or something?”

Brock just shakes his head. “Maybe. Something like that.” 

Jose’s body folds over him like a sheet of melted wax, his breathing a little more secure now; his chest moving, Brock likes to think, in tandem with his own, the two of them just at the fringes of this little bubble: a world inside a world inside the big one outside. His arms pull Brock closer, tightening around the two of them; the scent of black coffee and peaches never quite as strong as it is, in the silent darkness. 

“Guess I’m gonna have to apologize to Miss Yvie downstairs. That’s just not cute at this age.”, Jose whispers, the stubble on his cheeks scratching against the skin of Brock’s exposed collarbones. He pulls the two of them up from that scratchy, old carpet, his grip tight around Brock’s forearm. “Wanna come with?” 

Jose’s hand slips easily into his, pulling the two of them down the hallway, where with a flurry of footsteps; Brock can tell Steve’s run up another flight of stairs; back on his own business. 

“How old are you, anyway?”, he asks, hoping it doesn’t sound like too much; that he’s still cool- the kind of boy Jose will still want to kiss. 

“Ah-”, he giggles, pressing a short; stocky finger up against his still-glossed lips. “-you can’t have all my secrets at once, babe.” 

-

Monday: Morning

He knows he shouldn’t- but Brock wakes to Jose’s room door; held open with a red backpack as a doorstopper, the sheets folded neatly, up by his pillows near the headboard. It’s empty, even though it’s early; and Brock wipes the bleariness of sleep from his eyes, taking only a couple of minutes to wash his face in the bathroom, take his medicine, and comb his hair back in the mirror, before he bounds down the steps, passing Courtney’s office so he can sit outside of Michelle’s. 

The walls are thin, they’re not just all making that up, but he’s known, all night, while Jose tries to hide how his hands shake with nervous anticipation; that what happened yesterday won’t just go away, for either of them. There’s no kill switch that deletes everything that’s come before; no moment of clarity when they’ll just be in the present, with nothing from before weighing on what happens next. Maybe; Brock thinks to himself, tomorrow, and the day after that, though- that weight will get lighter, won’t it? 

That’s what the posters in Courtney’s office say; and the couple of times he’s talked to Steve; who brags about powerlifting and spending his weekends benching other guys at the gym, he seems to agree. So maybe, Brock will hold out hope for that one thing; and he’ll figure out the rest from there. 

Their voices float through the hallway; underneath the sounds of the fridge doors being opened, a staple gun firing into the walls; the chatter of another day, inconsequential things Brock knows now, not to pay attention to. He can hear Silky, talking about last night’s basketball game; and that’s all it is. 

Last week; he would have thought it was Silky; talking about him; the voices in his mind forcing themselves to sound just like he did. 

“-So, next time, what’s our plan going to be?”, Michelle asks, and Brock swears, even though he can’t see him, Jose must be fidgeting in his seat, fingers lacing into one another. 

“I’m gonna take a moment- when I get heated and I’m just gonna- I’m just gonna breathe and I don’t know. Use my words. Go kick a rock or something like that.” 

“Or, just don’t kick anything-” 

“Well, yeah, that too.” 

“You mentioned-”, Brock can hear Michelle shuffle her papers, knowing she must be fixing Jose with a sharp; severe glance. “Using your words? So whatever happened last night, do you want to explain to me, what it was?” 

“Um- is it bad that I don’t even remember? Just- I was frustrated as f- as hell, and he was too, and we both got up in each other’s faces, and you know, once the ball gets rolling, it’s all downhill from there.” 

“Hm. Sometimes you don’t know, definitely. And it does all just get so much bigger than it needs to be.” 

“I said sorry, to Yvie and all them.” 

“Right. But next time, we don’t just want to hear sorry, Jose. We don’t want to be dealing with this, any of it, again. Especially when you go home, because sometimes, saying sorry, or fixing things won’t be enough.” 

They’re silent then, for a few moments where Brock can feel his own breath catch in the back of his throat. 

“I meant like- finding someone to talk to. Using my words like that. I dunno, just telling someone I’m really fucking m- well, yeah, really fucking mad, ‘cause I’m not just- this person who’s happy and stuff all the time. Maybe I’ll just tell someone about everything- and I won’t feel like I’ve gotta blow the roof off this place all the time.” 

“Well, it’s not just this place.”, Michelle laughs. 

“All them places, all them people.” 

There’s a clatter of supplies against her desk, the sound of her fingers, tipped with those long, glittering nails, typing on her keyboard. 

“That sounds like more of a plan. What kind of person are we thinking of? Mom?”, she asks him. 

“I guess, yeah. But it could be anybody; you know, they don’t gotta know what to say, or be perfect or know what they’re doing. They just gotta be okay with me, and listen. And that’s it. They only gotta be special like that.” 

-

“ _ Brock. _ ” 

His head snaps up at the mention of his name, as Michelle’s office door clicks open, and he scrambles up, that old fear of getting caught; smaller this time, but not all gone just yet; floating in his stomach as Jose prances into the hallways, bouncing on the heels of his bright red and white sneakers. 

“Morning-”, he sing-songs, the tiny smile that’s always cut into his face; looking just a little realer today. His teeth still glitter like he belongs on TV; not two feet from Brock’s face, looking up at him eagerly like their day together has just begun; like there are a million adventures that they’re going to be on together, starting right now between the office, and the hallways, and the kitchen. 

“Breakfast? Silky’s cooking again, so you know it’s good.”, Jose offers, not quite caring that Michelle is watching them when their hands brush together, and he pulls at Brock’s fingers, leading them in the same direction. 

“Actually, Brock, I wanted to just borrow you for a moment- it won’t take very long, if Jose can wait a while?”, Michelle cuts in, grinning a little bit at them both. Jose’s right- Michelle is scary; but sometimes, Brock sees those flashes, behind her heavy-lidded eyes; that she’s more like Courtney; than she is like Ru- that she wants to really get to know them all; and she’s trying her best, too- just like all of them are. 

Maybe if he comes back; next week, and all the other weeks after; he’ll get to know her, too. 

Ask about where she gets her nails, maybe; or where she shops for her wigs. 

If Brock ever goes back to the ballet- he’s going to need new wigs, after all. 

“Sure, sure- save some for me, okay?”, he sputters out a little bit, tapping the back of Jose’s hand as he ambles up the hall. 

“Can’t promise anything!”, he shouts back, as Brock lets himself be led into Michelle’s office; folding himself into one of her plush chairs. He wonders if maybe, there’s another world where he’s on the other side there; staring instead at faces that will look suspiciously like his own, across the desk from someone else, whose fist is balled up in the pocket of their jeans; their lives about to go in a direction they would have never imagined even hours before, either. 

“What’s up?” 

She taps her nails against the hardwood of her desk; and sighs; looking up at Brock as she clicks closed a few windows on her computer. 

“We got a call here; from your mother last night. She’d heard where you were from some of your friends at the ballet, and while we’ve obviously got our own policies; about who we can tell where you are, and all of that- if you wanted to talk to her at all, I kept her number. Is that something you want to do? Ru wanted to give you the phone last night, but- well, I just thought it would be better to wait until the morning. It seemed like you had a busy night.”, she tells him. 

Brock’s cheeks burned with a slight red tinge, his eyes suddenly darting to a poster that hung beside Michelle’s window. 

Did absolutely everyone know about he and Jose? 

“Uh- well...yeah… I guess?”, he muttered, embarrassment still clenching at his stomach. 

“That you had a busy night, or- that you’d like to be able to get in contact with your mother?”, Michelle tapped at the side of her temple. “Remember, we’ve all got to use our words, a little bit more.” 

He bites down on the inside of his cheek then, surprised when he finally lets his gaze circle back to hers; surprised that they’re green and sparkling, more amused; than judgmental. Perhaps; Brock had always been thinking of things; that never even crossed anyone else’s mind. 

“Yes- to both. I had a good night.”, he says; and he means it, the feeling of Jose’s breath against his cheek, their hands lacing together in the hallway, still filling him with the kindling spark of joy. “And I would, actually, really, really like to talk to my Mom.” 

-

Their conversation isn’t quite what he expects. 

It isn’t like the movies. 

There’s no raw; wanton apology, no screaming, teary-eyes sorry, no recounting of her mistakes and no tracking back through them; telling Brock where she went wrong. 

There’s not even a moment, where she tells him perhaps, she wasn’t enough. 

Her voice doesn’t waver; even while Brock dabs at his tears with a box of tissues taped to the inside windowsill of Michelle’s office, trying to force a glass of water down his mouth, because this is the first time- in years and years, that they’ve ever actually _ talked.  _

He misses her; in that unquestionable way- even if they’re family, and even if sometimes, that makes everything hurt so much more. 

“You know what, Brock? I always thought that our Heavenly Father-”, she begins, pausing to take a deep, whooshing breath that he can hear, from all the way across oceans on the other side of the line, “- gave us children to shape them, but I- I think now, you know, He puts people in our lives, so they can change us, instead. For the better, for the most part.”, she says. 

It’s as close to _ I’m proud of you, _ as he’s ever going to get, and Brock swallows, letting the tears rush down his cheeks before he answers. 

“I know, Mom. _ I know. _ ” 

-

Monday: Night 

Jose’s sitting on Brock’s bed that night, legs crossed at the ankles, in a pair of gray sweatpants when Brock’s freed from Ru’s office, his folder and his schedule for the next few weeks in hand. Ru says he wishes him the best, and Brock’s only a little bit skeptical, skipping up the steps two at a time. 

Not everyone’s going to wish him the best; so he’ll take it for now, from whoever will. Maybe all that good karma, or whatever it’s called- will add up, and besides; it’s just good to think about that sometimes- how much people care, even if it’s not always obvious; like it is with Jose, who pretends to be watching something on the phone he’s snuck out of Michelle’s office again, but watches him intently when he enters the room, socks scratching against the carpet. 

“So, what’s the tea, Christine? They think you all good?”, Jose asks, the excitement barely masked behind how he tries to sound so casual; quieter than usual as though he doesn’t care very much, even though Brock knows he’s been camped out on his bed, waiting up for half the afternoon. 

“Yeah, I’ll come in for follow-ups and all of that-” 

“Just like everybody.” 

“Yeah. So- maybe I’ll see-”, he stops himself, biting his tongue before he can say more, than maybe both of them are ready for. “I’ll be around. What about you? Do you have to stay a little while longer?” 

He starts to laugh then, tossing his phone back against Brock’s pillow, whatever had had his attention, forgotten completely. “I could’ve left whenever, baby. Even with Michelle and all them, didn’t even need the room. Guess I just-”, he stops too, locking eyes with Brock, reaching forward to pull him by the strings of his hoodie, so they tangle up together, beside each other against his now crumpled sheets on the bed. 

“-just wanted to stick around; ‘cause I dunno, if I hadn’t, I might’ve missed someone.”

“Really?”

He nods, his entire body moving with his head that bobbles at the top of his neck, chin brushing against the tips of the tattoo across his chest. 

“I really like you, Brock.” 

“We kissed.”, Brock repeats; the moment that he hasn’t quite been able to leave behind, weighing heavier on him than he ever imagined would be possible. It’s only a kiss; a single moment that wouldn’t mean a thing- if only, he hadn’t wanted it to be. 

But, terrifyingly, he does.

He wants it to mean what he thinks it does; wants it to take it with him, when he climbs on a bus tomorrow, when he takes his place again at the barre, when he’s riding on the subway and watching ships dock at the pier. He wants it to mean something then; doesn’t want Jose to fade into the same nothing that he’s always tried to force people into, so he can run away from them. 

Maybe, in his deepest, darkest, fantasy, he wants Jose to be by his side then; if he’ll have him. 

“Yeah. We did. What’re we gonna do about that?” 

The question floats in between them, looking up at the dulling lightbulb that sprays that soft, orange glow across the ceiling.

“I don’t know.”, he answers; feeling far more concrete than he’s ever felt, with a man beside him in bed. “But maybe- not maybe- I really like you, too. So maybe, I could get your number, or something, and we can keep in touch?” 

Heartbeats pass in seconds; blood rushing up to Brock’s face. 

“Just that, huh?”, Jose asks. 

“For now. Is that okay?” 

He’s laced their fingers together, and grips tightly as he can around Brock’s hand. 

“ _ For now. _ ” 

The two of them stay; just like that, for a little while more, until Jose shakes his head, shooting up and pulling Brock with him. 

“Lemme help you pack up, then. And tomorrow, how about I come pick you up? Unless you already got a ride lined up?”

Brock shakes his head. “Nah, nah- I- that sounds cool, if it’s not out of your way.” 

“Trust me, it’s not.” 

His hand reaches up to ruffle at Brock’s hair, and it’s not how he’d ever imagine, having the guy he likes touch him. But it feels good, warm and comforting, and Brock leans into his fingers, kneading at blonde curls he knows he’s going to chop off the very first moment he can. 

Maybe, tomorrow, Jose can join him at the barber’s. 

He wonders how they'd look, with matching haircuts. 

Tuesday: Afternoon 

True to his word, Jose comes to pick him up in a freshly washed black Toyota; wearing ripped jeans and a white t-shirt with a red kerchief tied around his neck, laying so loud on the horn that even Michelle comes downstairs to yell at him to shut up, but she’s wearing a wide smile and a striped pantsuit that Jose can’t help but gush over, leaving his car for a moment, both doors open, to fawn over her like they’re old friends, even though they’ve only really been apart for less than two days. 

“Gotta get my mans! He gonna be half-deaf from those damn boujie ass Airpods!”, Jose screams from the street, his shirt stark and bright against the colorful New York summer.

Michelle only sighs, and leads him inside, where Brock is signing a different set of forms, watching Courtney sip on her tea. She shakes her head when they can both hear Jose, storming up the hallway and greeting everyone that he comes across, loudly telling Ross that he’s coming to pick up his prescription for Canadian Bacon upstairs. 

“What do you think will happen, once you’re out of here? Between you and - you know-”, 

Courtney asks, and Brock is surprised to meet her gaze, and see her look at him, unexpectedly, as a friend. 

“I dunno. I guess, we just wanna get to know each other, and go from there, you know?” 

“Guess I’ll have a front row seat to all the madness.”, she tells him, tapping on the calendar that’s taped to her desk. “Remember, you have to come pick up your prescriptions, and talk to the doc upstairs every second Tuesday, okay? And don’t be a stranger to us lowly folk on the first floor, either.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Jose circles back, waiting by the door of Courtney’s office, bouncing on his heels, as he hooks Brock’s arm in his, and leads him to the driveway, outside. 

“You have a car?”, Brock asks, tossing his backpack into the back seat.

“I live in Jersey! Duh! What, you couldn’t tell?”, he laughs, as Brock buckles himself into the passenger seat.

“That's your accent- that’s Jersey?”

“Yes bitch!”

“No wonder you’re scared of Michelle then. She probably knows where you live.”, Brock jokes, and Jose’s shoulders quirk up, his mouth falling open in a sharp, small smile. 

“Don’t be giving her any ideas now.”

They speed as much as they can in New York, which isn't much, but when they hit the turnpike, Jose rolls down the windows, and for the first time in quite a while, Brock finally; feels just alright. 

It’s as good a place to start as any.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Take care of yourselves!
> 
> If you need help, google [YOUR COUNTRY] and Crisis Line or Crisis Text Line. Someone will always be around to talk to you, and your problems are never as insurmountable or unique as you think they are right now. Sometimes, even if you feel like no one will want to give you any sympathy, you;ll find more people "on your side" than you could ever imagine. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the story, tell me what you think! There was an ending smut scene for this story as well, let me know if that's something you guys want to see; and I'll upload it and make them a series. 
> 
> This is the first time I've really tried writing something that's a bit more serious, and I hope that it was appropriate. I'm always up for more AU suggestions, as well, whether they're silly ones or more serious ones like this!


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